


tending to

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Begging, Edgeplay, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Spoilers, Pet Names, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: “Baby,” he rasps, when he’s found his breath, “baby, please.”And Ashe meets his eye, smiling the way he smiles at the tiny herb garden in pots on the kitchen windowsill. Caspar’s thick eyelashes flutter, and Ashe wants to touch them, with lips or fingertips, but this really isn’t the time. His hands drag down, slow over the twitching muscle of Caspar’s torso, over the curves where Ashe’s cooking has softened him.Caspar needs and needs and needs. Ashe provides.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107





	tending to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurnion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurnion/gifts).



The old towel wrinkles under Caspar’s knees as he shifts his weight, testing the knots that hold his wrists, forearms, ankles. He finds them unyielding, stiff without being stifling. Later, when his dear Ashe lets him out, the rope-marks on his skin will be light, quick to fade. A smile darts across his face, a little breath of laughter—he could take much more than what Ashe gives him, he swears, but Ashe won’t hear a thing about it.

Always careful with him, when they’re like this. Certainly, they can play rough—when Caspar is unfettered, when all the energy fizzing in him finds an outlet in Ashe’s body they cry out together, joyful, and leave nail-prints and love bites, full-body flushes that linger long after.

But now—Ashe kneels on the bed beside him, threading sleek braided rope between Caspar’s biceps and his ribs. He works carefully, with all the focus he’d give a book of knight’s tales, appreciating all the minutiae, the way Caspar’s scarred skin dips under the tension of the rope. The way he shivers, whines at the slightest touch, the most incidental brush of Ashe’s sure hands against his chest.

Ashe hums a favorite ballad, leaves kisses on Caspar’s cheeks and shoulders during the rests. Makes some rests of his own, because kissing Caspar is one of his dearest hobbies, because this is an exercise in patience.

Caspar huffs, fidgeting. Kneeling just in front of him, with the dip of the mattress angling them closer, Ashe can feel Caspar hard against his thigh, can feel little wet spots spreading on the hem of his shirt where he’s already dripping.

“I’ll be finished soon, I promise,” Ashe assures him, leaning in so his lips brush against Caspar’s collarbone, making him wince.

“Gah.” The tension shifts in the ropes as his head lists back, staring up into the rafters. “No fair, Ashe!”

Ashe just—leans back, smiles. Sets himself back to his task, crossing the rope over Caspar’s chest, slipping it into place so it frames his strong pectorals, pink nipples. Resists the temptation to tease them, if only so they can get on to the main event. Caspar is more patient than he lets on, but not by much.

“If you hadn’t made me untie you earlier, this would have been faster,” he says, thoughtfully, gently. Caspar just whines again, tilts his head back down to give Ashe the eye.

“It’s not my fault I had to pee!” Petulance smears itself all over Caspar’s face, and Ashe can’t help but pause another second to kiss it off his lips, his crinkled brow.

“I know, Cas, I’m only teasing.” Ashe lifts his hands away from the last knot, appraising everything in its place. He slips two fingers under each segment of rope, testing the tightness, making sure that his eager captive has room to breathe, to shiver and shift and fuss. 

Takes care with the yellowing bruises on Caspar’s ribs, his biceps, brushes just barely the thin skin below his blacked eye. Caspar shakes, huffing out a shuddering breath, eyelashes fluttering against Ashe’s fingers.

“Alright?” Ashe murmurs, and Caspar nods slowly. A calm settles over him, but Ashe knows it won’t last. Still. It’s—nice, to have him like this, even for only a moment.

The night before, Ashe had been washing dishes in the back room when there’d been a dreadful clatter up front, the clumsy, heavy steps and caterwauling of drunk uncompromising men. And he’d scrambled from the kitchen, throwing down his apron, ready to be that sharp-toned proprietor, but Caspar was already there, lunging for the brawlers, howling like the Church army was at their doorstep once again. Ashe stood stupefied, watching the clamor, watching Caspar drag them practically by the ears into the street, and heard the slamming of the door, the rough sounds of a fight, of men like sandbags hitting cobblestone. 

And Caspar had wandered in woozy, smearing the blood from his split lip, dusting his hands and proclaiming that they’d not be back in anytime soon.

Ashe had patched him up that night, salved his sore spots, held Caspar’s bleary head in his lap and whispered ‘my hero,’ laughing, with only the slightest tinge of irony. And they’d slept like that, atop the covers of their bed, wanting nothing for warmth but each other.

Come morning, Caspar was as needy as Ashe could ever remember him being. Which was a statement, really, because Caspar’s desire was always full-bodied, vibrant, a sweet emergency. He’d awakened rutting into Ashe’s thigh, whining, and held fast to him even after Ashe had cared for him, stroking him off with one hand while the other ruffled his hair.

Had come to him that afternoon in the kitchen, plastered himself to Ashe’s body as he peeled vegetables, whining in his ear. And again at dinner, licking sauce off of his lips, leaning back in the chair to trail his foot over Ashe’s calf, the crook of his knee, the soft inside of his thigh. Ashe had let him, too, smiled gentle across their little table in the back room, asked him if he needed.

Needed broadly, but also needed _this,_ to be hemmed in, to be kept. To be Ashe’s in his entirety.

It wasn’t meant as a challenge, but Caspar always took it for one. Wouldn’t have agreed if he didn’t want it, never, but—“You can be damn skippy I’ll take whatever you can dish out!”

It echoes in Ashe’s mind, the bravado of it, the crack in Caspar’s voice, still youthful despite everything. He laughs, nose pressed to bound shoulder, and Caspar whimpers at the brush of skin. Shoves his hips up, inasmuch as he can.

“Ashe—!” His voice wheedles so sweetly. Ashe is caught up in it like whitewater rapids, like a riptide, aching to get on with it, to appease his darling, kneeling for him, being so good, but.

There’s a little something, uncharitable, in the back stacks of his mind that would just like to watch him like this. Draw it out, like savoring a favorite meal, a beloved book. Hear Caspar squeal, hear him plead, feel the pitching of him.

Ashe likes to think of himself as a charitable man, though, and as such drags gentle fingers down the curved edges of Caspar’s ribs, strumming them like lute strings. Just slowly, so Caspar must be able to feel the ridges of his fingerprints. The fingers of his other hand drift up to Caspar’s breast, tug easy on the rope over his sternum. Just to make his breath catch, just to watch his swollen lips purse.

Caspar cries out sharp and jagged when Ashe’s lips close soft around a nipple, suckling, lavishing it with the very tip of his tongue. There’s a jerk at the rope, as if Caspar is trying to reach for him.

“Baby,” he rasps, when he’s found his breath, “baby, please.”

And Ashe meets his eye, smiling the way he smiles at the tiny herb garden in pots on the kitchen windowsill. Caspar’s thick eyelashes flutter, and Ashe wants to touch them, with lips or fingertips, but this really isn’t the time. His hands drag down, slow over the twitching muscle of Caspar’s torso, over the curves where Ashe’s cooking has softened him.

Dips his finger into the trail of downy hair leading down from his navel, follows it to the juncture of his Adonis lines, to the root of his cock. Caspar gasps, spilling the bitten-off ends of words from his reddened lips, frantic. The rope creaks—he’s fighting it, twisting his wrists.

He isn’t telling Ashe to stop.

Bracing one hand on his hip, meeting his hazy eyes, Ashe closes his fingers slow around the arch of him. He’s fever-hot already, dripping, and Ashe croons to him, lays kisses on his belly.

“Did you need this?” he asks, simply, his lips brushing against Caspar’s skin, and Caspar answers with a jolt, a keening breath.

“Need _more,_ ” he groans, as if miserable. Caspar’s whole body funnels itself into the jerking of his hips, thrusting shallow into his hand, and Ashe can’t help but appease him.

He strokes him slowly, gently, as if handling the inn’s good china. Rubs the pad of his thumb over the crown of Caspar’s cock, feeling the way it makes him throb.

“That’s it,” Ashe murmurs, when Caspar’s little whines round out, slur into a full-throated moan. “That’s right, steady…”

It’s as much a tease as it is an encouragement, and Caspar takes it as such, jamming his hips up as far as they can go, squirming against the rope, against Ashe’s hand on his hip, against Ashe’s cheek. He _squeals,_ frustrated, and Ashe soothes him with another little kiss, a flourish of his wrist.

“Ashe,” pants Caspar, high and reedy, “Ashe, I wanna—!”

But Ashe already knows. Caspar is never subtle about this sort of thing—Ashe can feel it in the clench of muscle under his lips, the way Caspar twitches, leaks over his fingers. He drops his hand, deft, and replaces it quick at the center of Caspar’s back, holding him fast through the shaking.

“Fuck,” Caspar hisses, tense, his body seized up tight. “Fuck, fuck, ’s not fair…”

Ashe just leans up, kisses his breast, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. His jaw, and then his lips, slackening, opening so sweetly for him. Gently, though—they’re still sore, still swollen.

He pulls back after a second, readjusts his stance so he can rest his forehead against Caspar’s, feeling him febrile, beaded with sweat. Smiles at him, though he can’t really see this close up. Trails that hand all the way down his spine, weaving fingertips between his vertebrae, making him shiver.

“You did so well, Cas, I’m proud,” Ashe tells him, and Caspar lets the praise seep through his skin, taking it for truth because Ashe wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ be disingenuous. Not now, not ever, really. It’s a heady thing, when Caspar thinks about it, but. He hasn’t really got the brainpower to fully mull it over at the moment.

Ashe holds him until the shaking stops, bracing him between sure hands, whispering gently to him. How sweet it is that Caspar trusts him with this, how handsome he looks, how good he’s being. How Ashe will always, always try to do right by him, here and everywhere else.

“Y-yeah,” mumbles Caspar, at that, “for you, too, Ashe, you’re my knight in—fuck, my knight in shining armor.”

And Ashe laughs, kisses his crimson cheek. “Trying to butter me up?” He lives for being Caspar’s white knight—even though it’s been years since he hung up his bow, even though the greatest master he serves is the inn’s landlord, even though Caspar is the one who throws out belligerent customers.

There are plenty of ways to be noble. Plenty of ways to keep loved ones safe. It’s enough for him, always.

Ashe keeps kissing him, at the apex of his cheekbone, the crinkled corner of his eye. The side of his crooked nose, the stubbly point of his jaw.

“More,” Caspar huffs, impatient, and Ashe can’t help but giggle. Pull away, take in the full picture of his face, tense and blotched red.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” More than once, Caspar has begged for touch too soon after Ashe has denied him, spending immediately once he’s obliged. And that’s—not the point of the exercise, so Ashe makes sure.

Caspar just nods, frantic, shifting under Ashe’s hands. “C’mon, please?”

And how can Ashe refuse? He’s always been so weak for him, the way he is for cats, for hot cocoa on frostbit nights. Caspar hisses as Ashe touches him again, just—cradling him in bent fingers, feeling the simmer of his skin.

“You’re _so mean,”_ Caspar informs him, as if it is the only fact he knows. And Ashe—does not take pity, because even when Caspar writhes with it, even when he spits every offbeat insult in his books, Ashe is astounded by him.

Always is, really.

With a little hum, Ashe curls fingers around him properly, grips him firm, starts again the languid motion of his wrist.

And delicate as the touch is, Caspar can’t take it, fidgeting like some anxious bird, swearing a blue streak. “Holy shit,” he says, “fuck, oh, Ashe, you bastard, fuckfuck _fuck.”_

Ashe takes it as a nudge that a little less teasing might be welcome, and speeds his hand. Tightens his grip, minutely, doesn’t want to choke up. Caspar sighs with it like he does after the first bites of a hot meal, come off the bone-deep satisfaction of a day’s work, and Ashe beams.

“I’m a bastard who loves you,” he murmurs, and wonders if it doesn’t sound too—too _maudlin,_ and then decides he doesn’t care because he swears he sees a little pearl of sweat trail down Caspar’s red brow and suddenly he feels the same naked awe he did the first time they made love, but better, because they’ve got the hang of it now, and—

“Ashe, Ashe, close!!!”

And Ashe jerks his hand away like he’s touched a stovetop, scrambling to find his footing again, to embrace Caspar and hold him through his tremors.

He whines and whines, like a cat fallen into a bathtub, shivering in his bonds, and there’s nothing Ashe can do but nestle his forehead into the crook of Caspar’s neck, rock him gently, rub his back.

“Such a good boy,” he murmurs, meeting Caspar’s eye so his beloved knows he means it. “So good, so sweet for me. You’re incredible like this, have I told you? I’m sure I have,” he says, half-laughing, “but you deserve to hear it again.”

Caspar cries out at the praise, a little, shifting. Ashe watches the bobbing of his Adam’s apple around a hard swallow, swears he can see wetness gathering at the edge of Caspar’s glassy eyes.

He breathes, long and slow and quaking, and Ashe doesn’t stop holding him. “You’re good,” he says, light and idle, tracing his fingertips along the ropes crisscrossing Caspar’s back. Slips his fingers underneath, makes certain that all Caspar’s thrashing hasn’t tightened them. “So good, Caspar, are you comfortable?”

And Caspar laughs at that, shaking his head where it’s slumped against Ashe’s slender neck. His coarse hair rustles across Ashe’s skin, and Ashe can’t keep back a little gasp—it’s one of his favorite sensations.

“Course I’m not,” he grumbles, “but don’t you dare stop, ‘kay? I—I want it.”

Ashe croons approval, trailing fingers down Caspar’s sides, past his heaving ribcage to the sunspot bruise on his hip, touches it slow and gentle like he would a priceless manuscript, all crackling parchment and loose gold leaf.

Even though it’s barely a touch, without pressure, without even the slightest hint of Ashe’s well-kept fingernails—Caspar moans with it, ruts up like a man starving into Ashe’s thigh.

Trails off into a wince as Ashe’s fingertips depart, but trembles again at their return, stroking in circles, achingly slow. Sighs.

“Ashe,” he croaks, as if he’s never had a drink of water in his life, “A-ashe, please, please please, oh—!”

“You’re so strong,” he says, muffled against Caspar’s jaw, “so brave, you take such good care of me… Take everything I give you…”

_“Yes,”_ babbles Caspar, and his hips kick to life again, trying to soften that ache against Ashe’s body—but stopping when he’s bidden, with the removal of Ashe’s fingers, with the tender clucking of his tongue. “Sorry, sorry—want to be good, want you, Ashe, my knight, only wanna make you happy…”

And Ashe can only hold him closer, start that gentle swaying once again, consoling with tender hands, the soft slowness of his breath against Caspar’s runaway pulse. “You do,” he tells him, simple and clear as any fact. Water is wet, and the sun sets in the west, and Caspar makes Ashe happy. Couldn’t stop if he tried, even, he’s just so—so relentlessly, indefatigably _good._

“You always do, Caspar, sweet pea.” The endearment makes Caspar wriggle, makes him tense and struggle, as if he could just—wrench himself free, have his warm arms around Ashe in an instant.

He keens, almost miserable, and Ashe feels it like a blow, love blooming rapid in him the way it does on the rare nights he drinks. Can’t help but soothe him, still rocking, still smoothing palms over his skin.

“Ugh, fuck, _baby,_ wanna _hold_ you…”

A little kiss on Caspar’s unshaven cheek doesn’t stop his whining—just makes it sweeter, higher, more plaintive as Ashe shifts against him, angles his head to whisper in Caspar’s scarlet-flushed ear.

“One more time for me, alright, Caspar? Once more and then I’ll take care of you, let you out so you can hold me? Sound good?”

“Dammit,” groans Caspar, but—nods, arches his back so Ashe can get at him. Almost tips himself over in his haste, but Ashe catches him, sets him to rights. 

Touches his chest again, gently combing through the hair on Caspar’s chest, following the trail of it below his navel. Not too fast, enough to build some anticipation—but he figures he’s done more or less enough of that, and takes Caspar’s cock in hand with little more ceremony.

Poor darling—he’s writhing, leaking over Ashe’s knuckles the second he starts in on him, even as delicate as he’s being.

“Please,” Caspar mewls, “Ashe, I’m not gonna—hold out—”

Ashe just—preens, a little, kissing the shell of Caspar’s ear, deftly twisting his wrist. “I know, Cas, you’re okay, just tell me when.”

There’s not much more after that—just a smattering of seconds, a half-turn of Ashe’s fingers before Caspar is doubling on himself, curling into Ashe’s shoulder, crying out “when! Fucking _when!!!”_

And Ashe can feel the hot outline of Caspar’s wide mouth through his shirt, can feel him leaf-quaking, swears on his life he can feel teardrops seeping through the fabric. Is overcome with how sweet his Caspar is, how dedicated, how much he is trying to be all that Ashe wants, even though he is no matter what.

Doesn’t stop his hand, just—keeps stroking in tight little movements, picking up his pace.

“Ashe!!! I can’t—I’ll—!!”

But he just sighs, shakes his head. “It’s alright, you’ve been such a good boy, go on. You can let go now—” he murmurs, and is cut off by Caspar’s ragged wail, the rush of his release over his fingers, the shivering, the spasming of him.

“I have you, I’m with you, good boy…”

And Caspar slackens, sobs, loose limbs still thrumming with the shudder of his heartbeat. Ashe coos soft nonsense in his ear, adoring, and holds him and holds him and holds him.

Shepherds him gently, when the aftershocks are through, helping him onto his side, plying him all the way with praises, slow hands over tingling skin. Tugs careful at the knots, freeing him methodically from the ankles up, rubbing the soreness out of rope marks. Kisses them, so they’ll fade faster.

“My knight,” Caspar calls him as he wraps his arms around him, wistful, dazed and far away. “Was I good?”

Ashe smiles that smile of his that is only for Caspar, only for their bed. “You were perfect,” he assures him, “always.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! hope you all enjoyed this--especially you, sparrow!! and all of y'all from the discord.
> 
> let me know what you thought, and come chill with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) if you like!


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